


Truth Values

by phalangine



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Courtroom Drama, F/M, Get Together, M/M, but not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 22:07:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7658539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phalangine/pseuds/phalangine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Judge Erik Lehnsherr is a controversial part of New York City's justice system. The court stenographer, Charles, who is as divisive within the court as Erik is without, was a good friend of his until their growing friendship was stoppered and now blows warm and cold toward Erik. Confused and frustrated, it isn't until an old case comes back to haunt them that Erik learns why Charles pulled away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth Values

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings in the (spoilery!) end notes

**@felonious_misdemeanor  
#threewordjudges** **#ErikLehnsherr** mutant, reformer, justice

 **@yesallbaselines  
** Lehnsherr: just another mutie **#threewordjudges**

 **@invisiblekitten  
** *looks at judge l* big. brass. balls. **#threewordjudges**

 **@justanothersmalltowngurl98  
#threewordjudges** Y'all remember the epic smackdown **#JudgeLehnsherr** gave **@GeneralWStryker** right? Gotta be "mutant and proud"

 **@totes-titties  
** for judge lehn: “suck my dick.” no really. please???? **#hotjustice #threewordjudges**

 **@blacktcas  
@midnight #threewordjudges** human pacifying weakling

 

Erik stares at his laptop, half praying for an explanation and half dreading one, until his eyes tear up and the screen grows too blurry read. He lets the machine drop to his thigh where he can pretend he didn’t actually see any of what he just read.

Handing down judgments is hard enough, especially when the case is as high-profile as the Black Tom's. He doesn't need to see reviews of his work.

Soon enough, though, he’s back scrolling through the mess once more. The tweets only get more incomprehensible when he thinks to look at the handles, but he continues reading anyway, morbidly intrigued. Slowly, the deeper he gets, the less squinting he has to do. Eventually he gets to the point where he doesn't need to look up most abbreviations in order to parse, if not the exact meaning, then the gist of most.

Some he just has to stare at, unsure if he's missing an inside joke or if the words just don’t make sense. It feels like an exercise in advanced aging- he used to know every type of slang, could read and write every type of code, but this...

With a burst of unasked for empathy, he gets a flash of understanding for all the fifty-something substitute teachers and their forced friendliness he'd shaken his head at in school. English is English, but damned if Erik remembers it having so many extra meanings.

Language aside, he can see why Jean- Justice Gray now, yet another reminder of how long Erik has been on the bench- sent the link to him. It is interesting to see Twitter and New York's senators have similar feelings about him.

"Undercover mutie terrorist" sounds like something Senator Kelly would love to call him. Erik is willing to overlook the slur to enjoy the thought of Kelly finally quitting the conciliatory act and just shout his slurs and shove his beloved registration papers at Erik. It would be well worth the reprimand to lift the man up by his own blood and watch him squirm. Betrayed by his own anatomy- a fitting lesson in understanding for every manifesting mutant. It would be lost on Kelly, but Erik would enjoy it just as much. Kelly would simply take it as another reason to petition yet again for Erik's removal.

 _Let him try,_ Erik thinks wrathfully as he scans the next batch of tweets. The senator has already made two attempts and failed. A third will only confirm what everyone knows: he's too out of touch, too hardline for his constituents, even the ones upstate.

In the middle of his idle scrolling, a tweet catches his eye, and Erik pauses skimming to examine the odd tweet deeper. The first two adjectives are common enough- hot, pro-mutant- which leaves him to hover, disconcerted, on @birdonthebrain's third adjective: kind. No one, not even the most zealous of his supporters, calls him that. They're right not to. It isn’t his job to be kind, which is good, because he isn’t good at it.

It's probably just a pre-teen projecting Prince Charming onto him, but the tweet lingers in his mind. Hours later, with his laundry in the hamper and his phone on the bedside table, Erik can’t let it go.

Who is birdonthebrain? What made them think to call him kind?

Why does it matter?

 

**_xx_ **

 

Commuting to work at six a.m. is as bad for Erik as it is for everyone else. Today, Erik is relieved to find only the usual level of pushy, frustrated commuters on the platform and exhausted co-passengers inside the car. He disrupts the flow to take a seat near the door, which gets him the expected grumbles. Taking in the other passengers without looking at them, Erik lets out a sigh. No one is making like they expect trouble except the girl hunched over in the far corner. Unless she has a mutation that weaponizes vomit- unlikely, but possible- in which case someone her age would know to bring one of those Basic Bags, though, it's no concern of Erik's. Another passenger is kind enough to go to her, which saves Erik the trip.

The train jerks back into motion, and Erik lets himself relax into the relaxing sway of his car. He does his best to keep his mind on the motion, despite his mind's decided interest in wandering. It's before dawn in the middle, though, and Erik was up later than he should have been thanks to Jean. He shouldn't be surprised his mind reaches out for what it always wants to touch: the third rail.

“Damn!” he hisses, jerking in his seat as if he'd gotten an actual shock. In his head, his mutation writhes unhappily, contorting into itself and buzzing at the electric snap.

Ignoring the scattered looks of interest, Erik gives himself a shake. Embarrassment rather than genuine pain is rolling through him at the slip. He hasn't let his gift wander so far it could actually touch the thing in more than a decade; he has too much hard-won control for that.

Which begs the question: did he wander, or did someone make him? A strong psionic could do it. Rogue telepath, he considers with a subtle look around, come to take out a grudge? But telepaths leak emotion. An angry one would leave a sense of their unhappiness in his head. All Erik feels is the start of a headache. Perhaps an accident, then, one just beginning to manifest?

His shields did not register foreign intent, and no one outside Erik and his parents knows about this particular fixation of his mutation's. Erik banishes the paranoia with a wave of annoyance. It must have been a beginner's slip up- or, considering the group of green-faced girls, a hungover child's inattention.

So why doesn't it feel right? Erik knows his logic is sound and his shields are strong. Mistakes happen all the time; a little shock that didn't even disrupt the Metro is hardly worth considering. His gut is insistent, though, and Erik knows better than to ignore it.

Rather than make a scene, he does what he always has when faced with a problem like this. He accepts both answers, outwardly does as logic supplies, inwardly prepares for his gut to be right, then puts the problem to the side and moves on. Here, that means staying seated but pulling his shields closer, rattling in his seat in time to the weapon around him.

 _Come on then,_ he thinks at any sneaky telepath fingers. _I'm ready for you._

Point made, Erik resettles his bag on his lap and his ass on the seat.

By the time he gets to his stop, there hasn’t been any response. He's almost disappointed.

**_xx_ **

 

He gets to court without further incident and immediately sets to getting ready for the day. “Xavier,” he calls, striding through the courtroom, “did you get me a copy of-” He cuts off at the sight before him.

“The Cassidy transcript?” the stenographer finishes mildly. He pauses in setting up the pile of technology spilling across his workspace to favor Erik with a dry look over his shoulder. Erik almost doesn’t catch it, his attention focused farther down. The way Xavier is squatting has his trousers pulled tight. Erik resolutely does not dwell on the image of the full curve of his co-worker's ass pulling the fabric taut.

Erik coughs. “Yes, that’s it.”

“Then yes, Your Honor. It's on your desk in your chambers.”

“And you have today's agenda?” Erik presses.

Charles’ face pinches in displeasure. It smooths out quickly, but Erik could hardly have missed it. “Of course, Your Honor. You, Ms. Frost, and my employer all left copies for me. Would you like to check? I have all three.”

Fighting a cringe, Erik shakes his head and quickly leaves for his chambers.

He isn’t picking on Charles. He just likes to be certain everyone knows what they have to do. It keeps his court orderly and the cases moving. Everyone knows to expect the morning rundown. Xavier has no reason to feel singled out, and Erik has no reason to feel guilty.

The exchange stays with him, as all discussions with the stenographer do.

Something about Charles pings wrong. Everyone says so. Erik can't put his finger on why any more than the others can.

Whatever the reason, it sets the court on edge, and Erik has seen the frustration mounting as years pass and the court staff continues not to figure it out. Until they can put a name to it, Erik suspects Charles remain on the frosty end of things. It's taken a toll on the man, his initial attempts at friendliness with them long replaced by cool professionalism.

The only exceptions are the bailiffs and one of the interpreters. No one expected Charles to wind up with those three as allies, but both bailiffs are decidedly with Charles. Howlett pokes at the smaller man constantly, usually until Xavier flushes and chastises. He was the first to plop down with the stenographer at lunch, where he seems content to stay. Darwin, on the other hand, brings Xavier and only Xavier coffee- good coffee, too, from the expensive Italian place in Queens. Angel’s affection is more discreet, but she always relaxes around Charles in a way she never does with anyone else.

Erik’s opinion is somewhere in the middle. Xavier hasn't actually done anything wrong, and the idea of shunning someone, and another mutant at that, makes him cringe.

That doesn't change the fact that every part of Erik knows _something_ about the man isn't right.

Which makes his body's interest in Xavier all the more frustrating. Without the creeping sense of _wrong_ he gives off, Charles would be exactly Erik’s type. In the time before he clammed up, Charles had shown a sharp sense of humor, and Erik had caught himself encouraging it. He didn’t realize until Charles retreated, but Erik had begun looking forward to seeing Xavier, habit moving him to seek the man out.

Erik had been too preoccupied with the Cassidy trial to take notice when Charles began to pull back. When he did finally have the energy to think beyond the trial, Charles was unreachable.

That brings them to where they are now. Charles says hello if Erik says it first, keeps quiet if he doesn't. He isn't outright impolite him, but he cuts off any attempts at extending their conversations beyond necessity.

Erik refuses to feel stung by the change. He had thought they had a good time together. Some of their arguments had gotten… vigorous, yes, but Charles had never seemed overly bothered. Erik is self-aware enough to know he could have misread the man, but it feels wrong. Charles had accepted Erik's temperament and matched it with his own unexpected fire.

It hasn't escaped him that Charles disguises his fiery nature beneath a heavy veneer made of cardigans. Soft-looking and too large for him, Charles has a ridiculous array of them. He spends his workdays with the sleeves rolled up to his wrists or scrunched up his forearms. Erik can't help but notice when he looks around between cases. Charles' fingers tapping out the last of his notes are the most interesting sight in the emptying courtroom. Erik has never felt inclined to learn shorthand, but the patter of Charles' fingers tapping out his own unique code is something he wouldn't mind learning at all.

(He knows himself well enough to recognize that isn't really what he wants. Charles transcribing the trial while wearing one of Erik's cardigans is closer to the mark.

Charles bent over the bench, shaking and sweaty, pants around his ankles, shirt hanging open under Erik's cardigan, trying to do his job despite what Erik is doing to him- that is closer still.)

Now is not the time to think of that, Erik reminds himself. Fantasizing about a telepath this close is as good as shouting in his face. Courtrooms across the state have all been retrofitted with telepathy-resistant materials by now, including judges' chambers, but they work to keep psionic communication confined to within the walls or outside them- not to protect minds within.

Their natural dampening effects do not mean Erik should tempt fate. Xavier could still catch some of Erik's errant thoughts.

Shaking off that irrelevant train of thought, Erik focuses on getting ready for the day. He grabs the transcript and stashes it in his briefcase first. After that, it’s a quick run for coffee from the communal machine, which he knocks back without tasting; a quick review of the docket; a last check of his email, which includes yet another courtesy alert that one of the defendants has switched counsel again; then it’s time for Erik to slip into his robe and return to the courtroom.

Charles is already in place, the bailiff- Howlett today, which explains the travel mug Charles is clutching- lounging against the wall beside him. Erik ignores them at first in favor of getting settled at the bench, but it quickly becomes clear the two are in their own world.

Both startle when he clears his throat. Xavier flushes an interesting shade of pink, but Howlett only slips into a lopsided grin.

"You ready, Your Honor?"

Erik ignores the mocking tone, electing instead to answer seriously. “I am. Let them in, and we’ll proceed.”

Howlett does, and Erik feels himself change from citizen to judge.

The first case is an arraignment. Guilty, with the prosecution recommending a lighter sentence than Erik would have expected. There is no reason to sentence the defendant harder, though, and Erik is glad for a reason not to clash with the prosecution. Sentencing goes quickly, and soon the next case is coming to court. Then the next and the next, until they break for lunch.

Erik eats in his chambers, alone.

Not, as his mother would suggest, because he refuses to be sociable, and not, as he has heard whispers suggesting, because he think he is too good for his coworkers.

He eats alone because after spending hours alternately damning people and saving them, he is exhausted. Every case rests on his shoulders. A single mistake could ruin lives.

Decompressing requires quiet, and quiet means being alone.

 _Charles was quiet,_ mutters a treacherous part of him.

Erik dismisses it immediately. He has too much to think about today to sulk over things that could have been but are not- namely, the Cassidy case.

He cannot for the life of him put his finger on what about Cassidy is sitting wrong with him. The case hit no snags. There were no finer points of law to debate. The man was clearly guilty, he was found to be so by his peers, and Erik sentenced him no harder or softer than any other defendant.

Yet it nags at him. He is missing something. Somewhere, somehow, something is waiting for Erik to find it. He just needs to look hard enough…

His watch beeps a five-minute warning just before Howlett pokes his head in.

“Five minutes,” Erik says before the bailiff can. “I’ll be ready.”

Howlett scowls but nods and walks off without further antagonizing.

“I may not have found you today,” Erik tells the file as he gets to his feet and reaches for his robe, “but I will eventually.”

The afternoon docket follows the morning’s pattern. An accused petty thief who pleads not guilty, a hit and run who takes a plea deal, a straightforward DUI case… it all goes without disruption. By the time the last case ends, Erik is exhausted despite the ease of the load. Nothing sounds as good to him as the prospect of a hot shower and swapping his suit for sweatpants.

On his way out, though, he hesitates on his way past Charles. It was their ritual until recently to go out together for dinner after work at least once a week. Perhaps a dog from Charles’ favorite cart and a walk would thaw the chill between them?

In the end he decides against it. Charles has made it clear that he has no desire to rekindle what was between them, and Erik is mature enough not to want to force his attentions where they aren’t welcome. He has seen where that leads, it is never anywhere good.

 

**_xx_ **

 

To his misfortune, returning home does not bring peace. He missed a call from Jean at two, and a call before eight is never good. A call before eight to his home phone is even worse.

For all she was the brightest intern at the firm where Erik used to practice, Jean’s skill with the law is absent in her personal life, and at some point, Erik became the person she turns to for advice. HaShem knows why, when Erik’s is shaping up little better.

Resisting the urge to ignore it, Erik hits the call button and hopes no one answers.

“Erik, you got my message!”

 _Damn._ “Hello, Jean. What seems to be the trouble? It doesn’t happen to be a case, does it?”

“I caught Scott messaging Emma Frost again.”

Erik might have liked Scott in another life. Scott Summers is a gifted lawyer, his understanding of the law is nuanced, and he takes on more than his share of pro bono cases. In this life, the man is also sanctimonious and conveniently forgets Erik worked mainly for the defense as well every time they disagree.

“Dump him.”

“No!”

“Threesome?”

“I don’t know why I asked you.”

“Does that mean you’ll stop inflicting your personal misfortunes on me?” Erik asks, knowing she will not.

“I just don’t see what he sees in her-”

“Yes, you do. I’ve seen you at parties, Jean, my dear.”

On Jean’s end, something clinks. “I hate when you’re right.”

“You’re not alone in that.” Erik briefly considers not asking but decides it’s worth the risk. “Is this because of the Phoenix?”

“Of course it is,” Jean snaps, and a moment later, Erik hears a crash. “Damn it! Everything comes back to this damned creature. If I could just let go a little, like Emma can, I’m sure Scott wouldn’t-” She draws a shaky breath. “How’s Charles?”

Erik allows the blatant redirect. “I wouldn’t know. He pulled back a few months ago, and I haven’t wanted to push. He seems tired, but that could be the work.”

Jean hums, the sensitive topic of Erik’s love life not enough to distract her from the woes of her own. It wouldn’t be. She only met Charles once on a rare visit to New York the year before, when Erik and Charles were tentatively going out for drinks every few weeks. Charles himself failed to impress her; he is too conciliatory for a fiery spirit like Jean. It is an opinion Erik typically shares.

“Maybe it’s the weight of his eternal optimism,” Jean snorts. “It can’t be easy turning a blind eye to everything all the time. Or maybe the air on his high horse is too thin-”

“Careful,” Erik warns, hackles rising. “That’s a fellow mutant you’re badmouthing. We may not see eye to eye, but integrationists are the best protection for our vulnerable brothers and sisters. We can’t all fight, Jean. Some of us need human compassion- at least until we have enough mutant doctors and caregivers.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going soft on me,” Jean snaps back.

“Don’t tell me you’re forgetting who it was that helped you get the Phoenix under control. It was a team of humans and mutants, was it not?”

“It was.”

“Then you’ll mind your tone with me. I’m still your elder, Miss Grey. I’ve forgotten more than you will ever know.”

“You’re ten years older than I am! Barely!”

“What a difference ten years can make.”

Blowing out a breath, Jean relents. “Fine. But I still think Charles is strange.”

“Strange?” Erik straightens up, intrigued. “You never mentioned you thought he was anything other than a boring optimist.”

“Telling infatuated people that the person they adore is strange is not an activity I care to pursue,” Jean says wryly. “But yes, he is odd.”

“Go on.”

“For one, he pulled away. Psionics don’t do that. Even a weak telepath like Charles is would need a very strong impetus to manage pulling back- out instinct is to simply overwhelm people we’re interested in.” She hums, warming to her subject. “For another- and more interesting- is the fact that I can’t recall his mind.”

Erik hadn’t known that was possible.

“It isn’t normally. I can remember touching it and that nothing felt abnormal, but beyond that… Could he have a secondary mutation?”

“No. Working in government positions requires that we register all facets of our gifts, as you well know, and a weak telepath couldn’t outdo an alpha-level one, could he?”

Jean hums again. “No, but it could be he isn’t aware of it. It wouldn’t be the first time a mutation turned against the mutant.”

“Having trouble with your guest again?” Erik guesses.

“I am, and that great doctor I had for a while when I was younger is gone.”

“What happened?”

“Psychic snap,” Jean says with a sigh. “He had to retire.”

Erik tuts. “A pity”

“You have no idea.” Another sigh. “I’ve seen others, but none of them get it like he did. He was _beyond_ omega-class. I can’t imagine how he didn’t knock the entire earth into a coma when he snapped.”

Before Erik can reply, a door opens on Jean’s end, and she lets out a tired sigh. “Scott’s home. Thank you, Erik.”

“Don’t make a habit of it,” Erik tells her for the thousandth time.

Jean huffs a laugh before the line cuts out and returns Erik to the silence of his apartment. After talking with Jean, the quiet no longer feels relaxing but oppressive.

 

**_xx_ **

 

Sunday, a welcome day off, arrives in time with a sticky heatwave. Erik lies in bed a long time simply reveling in the goosebumps that prickle along his skin as the air conditioner does its job cooling his bedroom.

Inevitably, his thoughts turn to Cassidy.

“What am I not seeing?” he thinks aloud.

It seemed a straight forward case of murder and kidnapping, if one made more complicated by familial ties. He murdered a lawyer friend to draw out and grab his cousin, which he managed, only for the man’s daughter, whom Cassidy had been raising as his own, to recognize she looked more like the cousin and, after more than a month, free her true father. The whole thing left a bad taste in Erik’s mouth. It must have done the same for the jury, who found Cassidy guilty on all counts.

“Why kill the lawyer at all? Why risk exposing the girl to the truth?”

No answers are revealed in the ceiling, nor the window.

What he needs is a distraction, and as he contemplates the heat waiting just outside his door, the perfect opportunity reveals itself.

Two hours later, Erik walks into a little house in Brooklyn with a bag of bagels and a grin as a tall, aging woman throws her arms around his neck.

“Erik!” she says, delighted, and squeezes him hard. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Mame. I just wanted to check on my parents.”

“What a good boy. Isn’t that right, Jakob?”

Erik’s father nods and opens his arms wide to usher Erik into a gentler hug. “Have you gotten taller?” he asks suspiciously when they part.

“Not unless you’ve stopped shrinking,” Edie mutters fondly from behind them, and Erik is quickly tugged into the kitchen where the start of another lunch is waiting. His parents clear that away as Erik gets to work preparing the meal.

They are happy to see him as they always are, though he can tell as they recount the gossip from Temple they wish he were more observant. But after moving around so much as a boy and fearing the neo-nazis who burned their first one down, he doesn't share the sense of community they find at Temple. He loves listening to them talk relay the latest gossip, his mother gushing about how lovely their new rabbi is and his father bemoaning the meat situation at his favorite deli.

It all goes as it usually does- complete with his mother asking after his love life. Erik flounders for a bit, not wanting to risk her finding out more about Charles than he's ready to handle. His father comes to his aid and distracts Edie with a reminder of their son's position, that he's a powerful, busy judge. He doesn't have all the freedom they had when they found each other. It makes her fuss a little before ultimately letting it go.

After the meal, Erik tells his parents to take their afternoon nap. He can take care of the dishes and get through some of his work while they do.

He has barely started doing the dishes before his father reappears.

"Getting some water," Jakob explains but doesn't leave after filling his cup.

Erik waits, and after a long moment, his father clears his throat. He asks after the man at Erik's work.

Erik asks how his father knew.

Jakob laughs. Says he knows his son. The way he seemed lighter for a time, his willingness to engage with this coworker. It wasn't mere friendship.

Erik is reminded of how his parents had reacted when he came out to them. Tears and hugs and a determination to find a way to fit their new understanding of him with their faith. To make a place for him in a Temple where he would feel welcome.

He feels himself tear up.

"I don't know what I did wrong, Tate. He just pulled away."

Jakob comes over and puts a hand on Erik's shoulder, pulls him into a one-armed hug.

Erik turns into it, just as he had when he was a boy. He has always been afraid of losing his parents. First to the people hunting them, then when Erik discovered he wasn't entirely straight. Yet here his father is, as alive and well as any man in his late sixties. And his mother is upstairs, equally alive.

Or she was. The scuff of slippers on the floor and the hum of her silver wedding ring announce his mother's presence.

"I thought you were going to sleep," Jakob says, faux-stern, as she slips her arms around Erik's free side.

"That's what I was doing," she agrees. "Then I found my husband missing. I wanted to be sure he wasn't sneaking off and finding trouble."

Jakob snorts.

Edie scowls around Erik at him. "I've seen the way Mrs. Feuerstein looks at you."

"Really? I haven't noticed."

"Don't you play the fool, Jakob Lehnsherr. You're not blind yet."

"Ah, but you forget, my love, that I am no magpie looking for shiny things. My son is a successful mentsh, my daughter is doing us proud in Israel, and my wife is more beautiful than the day we met. Forget Mrs. Feuerstein, Edie. I have all the treasure I could want."

To Erik's amazement, his firecracker mother blushes and subsides at the words. Jakob is beaming, clearly pleased with himself.

"Don't puff up so much," Edie grumbles, letting Erik go in favor of embracing her husband. "You look like a penguin."

"Yes, dear. Back to bed. I'll be up in a moment. Erik and I were just talking."

Edie rolls her eyes, clearly suspicious, but lets go of Jakob in favor of making Erik bend for a kiss on the cheek.

As she wanders stiffly back to their bedroom, Jakob shakes his head and wonders aloud how he got stuck with such a woman. He looks as happy as he had the day Erik graduated from law school.

It makes Erik's chest pull painfully tight.

"Before you were born," Jakob says suddenly, "when your mother and I were just getting to know each other, I thought I would never understand her. I was always saying the wrong thing. Doing the wrong thing. I was very shy, Erik. Whenever Edie looked at me, she would make this strange face." Erik fights a laugh as his father comforts his expression into some mixture of angry and constipated. "I was so sure she saw me as weak, just as I did. But she was never- She never told me to go away. You understand? She would make that face, but if I spoke to her, she would smile and talk to me for as long as I could stay. And when I left, she would make another face, like I was taking something wonderful from her. It puzzled me for months."

"But you figured it out in the end," Erik observes mildly.

His father lets out a bark of a laugh. "Don't be impudent. But yes, I did. I was getting my things together to leave one day, and when I looked up, her face was... I thought she was going to cry. So I said to her, 'Edie Eisenhardt, why do you do this? You scowl at me when so come near but tear up when I leave.'"

Erik knows exactly the reason for the look on his father's face. Still, he asks, "What did she say?"

"She called me a stupid boy and told me to go away," Jakob proclaims jovially. "It turns out I was doing the same thing to her!"

"I doubt my face is the problem here, Tate. Ch- The man sees me all day long."

"Maybe so. What I'm telling you, Erik, is that if you want answers, you have to ask questions. Your boy may not know how confused you are."

"He's a telepath."

"So is the rabbi at the Reform Temple your mother and I see sometimes. He says telepathy is more confusing than enlightening. People don't think all their thoughts at once, so it's like hearing snippets of conversations: no context, just blips and bloops."

Grateful for the change of topic, Erik says, "You two... You really did go looking, didn't you? When you realized I was a mutant."

Jakob waves it away. "Of course we did. You are our child. Besides, you seemed terrified when you accidentally melted the Seder plate."

Erik remembers it well. He had been mortified that his interest in the carefully sculpted metal had disfigured it in his father's grasp.

"Talk to him," Jakob urges him one last time. "In the meantime, I better return to your mother before she gets the broom."

Erik watches his father leave with a pang of envy. His parents stayed together through the most terrifying experiences Erik can think of, and they still regard each other with the sweetness he remembers from childhood. Erik can't even manage a stable relationship for a single year, let alone forty.

Shaking the gathering dark mood off, Erik reaches for his bag and the notes inside he made on the case. His mother gets so tired and his father is such a hoverer, neither of his parents will be back out for an hour at least, so he gets settled on the couch and sets himself to the task of decoding the criminal mind.

 

**_xx_ **

When he goes back to work on Monday, Erik is in better spirits for having seen his parents, though the Cassidy case is still tickling the back of his mind.

He arrives earlier than usual and makes a beeline for his chambers, only to stop in his tracks when he catches sight of someone else in the courtroom. Charles isn't known for coming in late, but he doesn't make a concerted effort to be early either. His demeanor is off, though with his back to Erik identifying what is impossible. Before he realizes what he's doing, Erik calls Charles' name. The man continues whatever he's doing, giving no sign he heard.

Marching forward, Erik repeats, louder this time, "Charles!"

Charles startles visibly and whips around with a mental note of discord that jangles in Erik's head. "Erik? What are you doing here?"

His voice is off again, Erik thinks as he runs a scrutinizing look over Charles. There are deep bags under his eyes, and his skin is gray under the sheen of sweat along his brow. His clothes are rumpled more than usual.

Charles doesn't flinch away when Erik instinctively steps closer and puts his hand on the man's forehead. It isn't warm- just the opposite.

"You shouldn't be here," Erik tells him. His voice comes out sharper than he intended, but Charles only sighs and, instead of coming back with a snappy reply, leans harder against Erik's hand.

Swallowing hard, Erik resists the urge to put his arms around Charles. "I thought you hated me."

Charles doesn't reply immediately. When Erik takes a step back and repeats the question, staring hard into Charles' unfocused eyes, Charles shakes himself. His eyes are too bright now, but he seems less out of it when he straightens up on his own. "I don't hate you," he says tiredly. "I am frustrated and annoyed by you, yes, even angered, but I've never hated you, Erik."

Erik doesn't get to ask why Charles seems so sad about that. The courtroom doors open loudly a moment later, and a scowling Darwin appears with two coffee cups in hand. Erik reluctantly lets Charles go and steps back, but something in him knows all is not right. Charles doesn't have any of clear signs of illness, but Erik can't shake the suspicion that something very important is going on with the stenographer. With Darwin lurking like a protective shadow, Erik doesn't want to push. So he continues to his chambers and gets ready for the day.

Nothing happens during work hours, and between Angel and Darwin hovering, Erik doesn't get the chance to speak to Charles afterwards.

When he gets home, he showers off the frustration and hits the couch with a growing sense of loss.

 

**_xx_ **

 

A week passes, and as if they had spoken, either Darwin or Logan is always around when Erik tries to speak to Charles.

 

**_xx_ **

 

Another week passes, then another, and a month. Erik gets no closer to Charles.

He does, however, realize the trial for the second suspect in the case that saw his suspicious defendant convicted is almost upon him.

It is a poor distraction.

 

**_xx_ **

 

When the day of the accomplice's trial arrives, Erik is no closer to figuring out what about the Cassidy case feels wrong.

He gets ready for work anyway. The flack of sleep makes him slow, turns the process of showering and getting dressed into an exhausting marathon. Somehow his extra half hour evaporates between waking up and jamming his breakfast in his face as he stumbles out the door.

Later, he will blame his exhaustion for the fact that he doesn't immediately recognize the man next to him waiting for the train. When he does put the cardigan and messenger bag together with the wavy brown hair and shape of the man's nose, Erik could kick himself.

"Charles? What are you doing here?"

One brow quirking, Charles gives Erik a look that is nonetheless equally tired. "I've been taking this train for months now. Don't tell me you're only just noticing."

Erik feels himself flush. "I noticed you."

"Liar."

Just like that, they somehow return to the easy camaraderie of before. Erik wants to ask what changed but bites his tongue against the urge. This is enough. He can be satisfied with Charles' friendship.

The train arrives, and they take seats beside each other. Despite himself, Erik can't help wondering what sparked Charles' renewed friendliness as they squish together to accommodate a woman with four bags. The warmth along Erik's side should be unwelcome in the heat; instead, he craves more. More contact, more heat, more Charles.

Unaware of Erik's internal struggling, Charles chats amiably with the woman. He laughs at something she says. She leans in closer.

Forgotten, Erik burns.

The two remain close the entire ride to their stop, at which point Erik hops to his feet. Charles is slow to follow, his ease disappearing as he stumbles after Erik.

_Wait!_

It isn't a command, but Erik stops regardless. Charles jogs up to his side then passes him, only to turn and face Erik squarely.

"We should talk."

"I don't think we have anything to talk about," Erik bites out.

Charles shakes his head. "I disagree."

"Unfortunate."

"Erik," Charles pleads, changing tac. As if that could work on Erik, who has been presented with false, earnest pleas for years. Charles must see his mistake, because he immediately drops the supplication act. "Give me five minutes."

"I don't see why I should-"

"Please."

Charles may sound severe, but his gift is lashing around Erik, bumping against him in agitation as it eddies and flows. Psionics can't fake that, Erik recalls distantly. They can change people's perceptions of most anything- just not of what their own gift experiences.

"Five minutes," Erik concedes, to which Charles nods.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I haven't given you anything."

That dealt with, they return to their commute in silence. Charles' gift calms but continues to nudge against Erik occasionally. He resists the urge to bat the strange touch aside. It doesn't feel predatory. He just doesn't know what to make of it, and keeping it at a distance seems like the safest reaction.

Charles gives no sign of noticing, though Erik is sure he must.

They continue up the steps and through the courthouse together, only parting when Charles wordlessly breaks away to get set up.

Erik continues on to his chambers. Inside, waiting for him, is Emma Frost.

"I heard Marko switched counsel," Erik observes as he goes about getting ready. "Even you can't win this. Unless you're holding out on evidence?"

Frost narrows her eyes but shakes her head. "I'm not hear about my client. You need to take Xavier off transcription."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"He's my guy's step-brother. Any mistakes could have ramifications you don't even want to ponder, Lehnsherr."

Pausing with his hand around his robe, Erik turns his focus to the defense counsel. He and Frost get along well despite the triangle she has going with his former intern and Summers. She is a powerful speaker, and her knowledge of the law is unimpeachable, even if her interpretations leave something to be desired.

She isn't lying outright, but there is something she isn't saying. The real reason she came here in person to demand Charles' removal, perhaps.

He doesn't get to ask.

A knock on the door interrupts him, and a moment later, Howlett pokes his head in.

"Got a big one today, Magnets," he grumbles. "It's all hands on deck, and if it's all the same to you, I'd like him out of here sooner rather than later."

"Thank you, Howlett. Is that all?"

Howlett nods and disappears as quickly as he appeared.

Running his hand over his forehead- he can feel a headache forming already- Erik lets out a breath. "There's no time to find an alternate. If you had told me sooner-"

"I only found out today," Frost cuts in sharply. "If this is what has to happen, fine. But be careful, your honor, and keep an eye on Xavier."

With that, she flips her hair over-the-top shoulder and walks out.

Headache only growing, Erik finishes getting ready quickly, then lets Darwin, who is waiting just outside his chambers, know he is ready.

The court room is full and growing restless as Erik takes his place, and, with only a quick glance at Charles and his deathly pale skin, begins the case.

 

**_xx_ **

 

The case proceeds as usual. Both lawyers present their opening briefs, both of which prove compelling- if more through pathos in Frost's case. Then the first witness, one of the officers who tracked the getaway car, is sworn in, and the questioning begins.

Erik follows the case closely. Marko may only be accused of being an accomplice after the fact, but the man strikes a chord in Erik he had thought done being struck. He is too big, his face set in a mask of superiority. It is not the place of the law to judge by looks, but it is not his degree that makes Erik's hackles rise. He has known men like Cain Marko. Their disdain for lesser men makes them cruel. Eventually, he will give himself up.

It takes less time than Erik would have thought, and when it comes, Erik is helpless.

As the officer is stepping down, Marko stands up and declares, "You aren't going to let them convict me, Lehnsherr. In fact," he sneers, "you're going to say I'm innocent."

Erik squashes the urge to flatten Marko like a fly. "This is a court of law, not a bar. Sit down, Mr. Marko."

Marko's lips thin. "Don't think I will. Will I, boys?"

From the gallery, a bunch of men in various types of dress get to their feet and pull out ceramic firearms. Which they train on various members of the court.

Then Marko turns to Frost.

Looking horrified, she leans away in her chair. "Mr. Marko..."

Erik doesn't see Marko move. One moment, he is towering over his counsel. The next, he has Frost's arm twisted behind her back.

Frost cries out, and a moment later, Erik's brain is melting inside his skull until, blessedly, everything goes black.

 

**_xx_ **

 

Erik wakes slowly. His head is pounding, and as his vision clears, it pulses black around the edges in time with the thumping in his skull. Groaning, he hauls himself upright. His back hits the wall, and Erik gladly slumps back against it. He stays like that, panting hard, as he takes stock of the situation.

His gift is gone, and around his neck is something cold that makes his fingers go numb when he touches it. Not far away, Charles is sitting slouched against the wall. Erik studies him in profile for a time, eyes drawn to the bruise on his cheek and the collar around his neck.

Erik calls his name, but his voice is rusty and Charles doesn't hear him.

When he tries to to stand up, he discovers his ankles have been cuffed as well as his wrists. His squirming knocks the light off the desk, which shatters when it hits the floor.

Some of it hits Charles, who startles. When he turns and sees Erik floundering, he scrambles over despite his cuffed wrists. After he helps get a disoriented Erik upright, Erik asks if he's all right.

Charles tilts his head and squints for a moment before nodding slowly. Before Erik can ask anything further, Cain stomps in along with two of his goons.

"Hello, Lehnsherr," he grunts.

"What do you want?" Erik asks tiredly.

"Right to the point as always. It's not too much. Just find me innocent and undo Tom Cassidy's conviction."

"Why would I do that?"

Cain shrugs and jerks his head toward Erik and Charles. One of his accomplices moves forward and grabs Charles. He puts a gun to Charles' head when he struggles. Erik manages to catch Charles' eye and shakes his head minutely.

 _Don't fight_ , he mouths, and Charles falls still.

"Do as I say, and nobody has to get hurt," Cain tells him, voice indulgent. "Don't, and you'll be a man with a whole lot of lives on his conscience. I'd think about their survival, was I you." He turns to Charles, and his expression loses its veneer of civility. "What, no hello, little brother?"

Charles stares at the ground and doesn't react. Cain's face goes red, then purple, then smooths into a smirk. "That's right." He reaches out and tilts Charles' head toward him. "Hey, Charles, does Lehnsherr know your little secret?" He gestures at Erik, puts a finger to his lips as if shushing him. "He doesn't, does he? You always did have a knack for keeping your mouth shut."

Erik watches, confused and afraid, as Charles wriggles, his face scrunched up in pain. "Leave him be, Marko."

Cain laughs but lets go of Charles' face. "Having trouble, Charlie-boy? Read my lips: your secret is out."

Charles lets out an off-key moan and collapses in on himself.

"You know what's funny about family, Lehnsherr? No matter how little you think of each other, no matter how tall your rich boy's high horse is, you still know where each other's skeletons are buried."

Charles says, "Cain," in a thick voice that immediately makes Erik think of the bruise on his face and head trauma.

Cain smirks. "Shall you tell him, or shall I?"

Erik frowns. "Tell me what?"

"Your friend has been playing in your brain, my dear judge. Every time you spoke, Charles here tweaked your mind."

"Don't play with me."

"I'm not," Cain crows. "You see, Charlie here is deaf."

 

**_xx_ **

 

Erik frowns. Charles, deaf? The idea is absurd. The man's job is writing down what he hears. That would be impossible for a deaf person.

Cain's expression remains smug. "Deaf as a doornail, he is. Without his creepy mutation to fill in the blanks, Charlie here can't hear a bloody thing."

Erik looks to Charles to contradict the lie, but Charles is back staring at the floor.

Cain barks a laugh and pushes Charles toward Erik, who only just manages to catch him.

"You two have a nice think about what you've heard. I'll be back in a bit."

Cain saunters out, his cronies at his heel.

As soon as they disappear, Erik whips around to face Charles, but Charles refuses to meet his eyes. Erik stares at him, completely at a loss. He doesn't want to believe Cain, but faced with this, he can hardly deny it.

He can't decide what he's feeling most: hurt by the lie, repulsed by the violation Charles has been perpetuating, or impressed by the scale of his deception.

Spurred on by the need to do something, he closes distance between them. He grabs Charles by the chin and makes him meet his gaze. After a long moment, Charles does. Erik asks him why.

Charles narrows his eyes.

"You didn't have to lie."

Charles squints, then shakes his head and motions as if he were writing. Message received, Erik gets up and grabs a notebook and pen from his desk.

Erik writes what he said.

Charles reads it and quickly scribbles, Screw _you_ _it’s not that simple._

For a moment, Erik sees red. He grabs the notebook from Charles and writes, _Yes, it is!_

Charles draws a noisy breath through his nose, expression pinching, before shaking his head violently. Motioning for the notebook, he takes it from Erik none too gently and starts writing furiously.

 _It’s not that simple._ He shows the paper to Erik for a moment, then hunkers down over it.

_Not hearing is hard. People speak too fast, expect everyone to keep up. They don’t speak my language, don’t want to learn- I had to learn to be “normal”. When people find out I’m deaf, they think less of me._

Erik opens his mouth to argue, only for Charles to scribble, _I know they do._ _My gift shows me._

Relenting, Erik asks, “Is it really that bad?”

Charles squints- Erik resists the urge to slap his forehead, writes his question instead- then nods.

_It’s why you pulled back, isn’t it?_

Charles hesitates, but when he nods, he holds Erik’s eyes.

All this writing is reminding Erik of his days studying for the bar. He shakes out his hand before asking,  _Do you talk without using your gift?_

_Not if I can help it._

Erik asks why.

Charles gives him a hard, unimpressed look, writes, _I sound deaf._

_You think I’d laugh at you?_

Charles shakes his head. _You might pity me. Other men have._

Erik doesn't know why he wants to hear Charles' actual voice so much, but he does. He has to know if he’s missing anything.

Charles pokes his shoulder, gestures at the page. _You_ _can’t let Cain get away with this._

With no sign of Cain or his extra muscle returning- Erik does his best not to think about what might be going on in the main courtroom and why the building is so quiet- they turn their attention to looking for a way out of this.

"What I don't understand," Erik muses aloud after yet another idea gets shot down, "is why Cain is doing this. He was just the getaway driver. Cassidy is the one who killed the lawyer."

Charles taps the notebook, and with a sigh- it really doesn't matter- Erik writes his question.

It doesn't take Charles more than a moment to shake his head and grab a pen.

_Cain did it._

 

"But he couldn't have gotten there in time," Erik protests.  _No human could run fast enough from his workplace to his car, and Marko isn't a mutant,_ he writes for Charles' benefit.

Again, Charles shakes his head.  _Cain isn't just a human,_ he scribbles hastily.  _He was never that big before the Army sent him off. I can't prove it, but I know he found something that made him like he is now._

_You think he is the one who killed the lawyer, then?_

This time, Charles nods, and Erik can admit it makes sense. Cassidy hadn't been unhappy about the man's death, but he hadn't struck Erik as a killer. If Cain is the real murderer and Cassidy is just taking the fall, though, that makes more sense. He wouldn't want to risk Cassidy turning on him in prison, which explains his insistence on Erik overturning Cassidy's sentence. It also explains why the case kept making Erik itch- putting someone away without clear guilt is not uncommon, even with juries that want the whole forensic shebang, which Erik wishes weren't the case, but Cassidy's guilt had seemed certain. Except it hadn't remained that way the longer Erik had to think about it.

He can't do anything about it now, so he shakes off the thought and rejoins Charles in looking for escape.

After ten more minutes of brainstorming a solution pass with no luck, Charles rubs his temples. Erik fights the urge to do the same. The world is starting to slur into unreality without his gift to anchor him. He doesn't want to think about what Charles must be experiencing.

_I could try something._

Erik looks up from the notebook in curiosity.

 _The anti-psionic measures aren't absolute._ Charles stops there and draws his lower lip into his mouth. _I might be able to get out of my bonds and, after my gift recovers enough, shape it in a way that could pierce the barrier. Possibly even take down a few of Cain’s men._

_What if you can’t?_

Charles’ lip slides free of his teeth, the flesh now fat and shiny red. _Nothing good._

Erik gestures him closer, gets to work loosening the collar. His hands are sweaty and shaking around the complicated clasp, his heart hammering in his chest as he glances between Charles’ neck and the door.

Before he can get it undone, the door flies open. Cain comes through a moment later. Erik slips his fingers around Charles’ neck, the better to pretend he’s calming Charles rather than fidgeting with the last part of the locking mechanism. If only he had his gift…

Cain is spitting with rage as he strides into the room. He takes one rapid look around the room before his eyes settle on the opposite end from Erik and Charles. A second later, Erik’s desk hits the wall and smashes into pieces. Wood shrapnel goes flying, bits of it embedding themselves in the side of Erik’s face.

Unsoothed, Cain makes an abrupt about face and turns back to them.

“You,” he growls, “you did this! All you had to do was tell someone, Charles. Your ears might be fucked, but your eyes and your mouth work just fine.”

Erik’s fingers tighten of their own accord, but Charles only tilts his head.

Unfazed, Cain begins to pace, only walking a few circuits of the room before continuing his tirade. “I wouldn’t have taken this path if I hadn’t been so desperate to leave! I never would have fallen in with Cassidy and the others if you had just _helped_ me!”

One of the men in the doorway shifts uncomfortably.

“Problem?” Cain snaps, head jerking up.

The man shakes his head quickly.

“Good.” Suddenly falling still, Cain smiles. “Now, Your Honor, have you made up your mind?”

Erik tenses but forces himself to say, “I already told you. I won’t subvert the system.”

Charles quivers.

 “You know, I was hoping you’d say that.”

Marching over to them, Cain grabs Charles and yanks him to his feet. He ignores Erik, dismisses him with an absent shove that knocks him flat on his back. Erik hears the thump of his skull knocking against the floor, but the sound is distant, muffled by the feeling of his brain shaking.

Above him, Cain is lifting Charles with huge hands under his pits and around the sides of his chest. “One more time, then. Tell the jury not to convict me, and declare Cassidy’s invalid, and I’ll let you have my brother in one piece, since you’re so attached to him.”

“No,” Erik croaks.

“I thought you might say that.” Cain gives him a grin. “Just remember- you could’ve prevented this.”

Then, so casually it could almost be an accident, he throws Charles.

Erik watches in horror as Charles sails across the room and slams into the far wall. He collides with a crash of plaster and a silent cry, and for a long second Erik wonders if he’s going to go through the wall. He doesn’t, merely hangs there, suspended like a gruesome statue, before toppling forward and falling to the floor, where he lands with a heavy thump.

“Last chance,” Cain advises him. “Be back in a bit.”

Erik doesn’t wait for him to leave. The moment he can get his feet under him, he scrambles unsteadily to Charles’ side.

“Charles, are you all right?”

His head is pounding so hard, he can’t concentrate enough to be sure the movement in Charles’ face is real and not a result of Erik’s vision swimming. All he can tell is Charles is limp, unresisting as Erik pats his face and tries to figure out a way to wake him up without making anything worse.

He has half decided to shake Charles anyway when something latches onto his arm, hard. He looks down and finds one of Charles’ hands clenched white-knuckled around his forearm.

“Don’t do it.”

Erik blinks. “What?”

“Don’t give Cain what he wants.” Charles’ fingers dig in deeper. “But stay alive, would you?”

“I will, but, Charles-”

“Rogers is on his way.”

“You got through?” Erik asks, desperate, but Charles says nothing, only slumps bonelessly against the floor.

“Damn it!”

Erik fully expects Cain to reappear, but he never does. A shout goes up in the other room at one point, and Cain’s roaring voice answers wordlessly. Erik doesn’t have the strength to get up and check what’s going on. He hauls himself between Charles and the doorway just in case, but even that leaves him exhausted.

Sometime between then and a familiar voice shouting, “On your knees!” Erik falls asleep, only to wake up to an EMT he almost recognizes dashing over.

After that, things blur. Charles winds up on a stretcher. Erik’s collar gets taken off, along with the cuffs. Charles’ EMT turns soft brown eyes on him and offers to let Erik ride to the hospital with Charles.

Erik accepts the offer in silence, but inside, he burns with the knowledge that he would have come along whether he was allowed to or not.

 

**_xx_ **

 

When Charles wakes up from an afternoon nap more than two weeks into his stay at the hospital, Erik is there. He hovers in the doorway, uncertain of his welcome.

A friendly nudge from Charles’ gift makes it clear he can come in.

“You might change your mind soon,” he warns as he takes a seat in one of the hard visitors’ chairs.

Charles lifts a brow.

“We need to talk.”

_Are you saying that as my boss or…?_

“Both.” Erik pinches the bridge of his nose. “I had to tell them about you, and they’re launching an investigation into every trial you recorded.”

_I know._

“Then you also know they might not let you back even if they find nothing.”

Charles gives him a crooked smile. _Even if that weren’t the case, I wouldn’t want to go back. This was only ever an interim job. Something to put food on the table while I figured things out._

That’s the first Erik is hearing about this. Charles is old enough that Erik had assumed he had a previous career, but he hadn’t considered that court reporting might not be a permanent follow up. Clearing his throat, which is suddenly tight, he asks, “What did you do before?”

 _Gift counselling,_ Charles says wistfully. _Teaching mutants to control their gifts and become comfortable with themselves- it was a fantastic career._

“Why did you leave if you liked it so much?”

_It was… hard on my gift. I had to quit._

The pieces come together in a rush. “You were Jean’s doctor, weren’t you?” he breathes. “How did she not recognize you?”

Charles snorts. _It’s been years since I was a counselor. Even if I did see Jean- which I’m not saying I did- she would have been a very stressed young woman back then._

“But why didn’t she recognize your mind?”

 _Like I said: if I had seen her, she would have been_ very _stressed._

Erik sits back and digests that. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but then, he wouldn’t have thought he’d find an omega level telepath living quietly and working as a stenographer. Charles could have anything he wanted, yet here he is.

 _Not anything._ A touch, feather-light and unreal, ghosts across Erik’s cheek. _Some things are beyond even my grasp._

Swallowing hard, Erik’s heart thumps hard against his chest. “Are we doing this, then?”

_You’re the one who came to me. You tell me where you want this to go._

In truth, Erik had not thought that far ahead. He knew he had to check on Charles, so he found out which hospital he was transferred to and came over.

Charles sags deeper into his pillows. _How on earth did you become a judge?_

Shrugging, Erik casts a look over his shoulder at the door. No one is there, and he knows that. Pretending to check on their privacy only delays the inevitable. He knew they would have to talk before he left. Everything else is just a smokescreen, and a poor one at that. Charles saw through him the moment Erik walked in.

Charles doesn’t rush him.

“I don’t know what to think about you,” Erik admits slowly, turning back to face Charles. “What you did, warping my mind- warping all our minds- it’s not something I can overlook.” Unsettled by the reminder, as he has been every time he think about Charles altering their reality, he scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “You violated our trust, and I don’t believe you’re sorry you did it.”

 _True._ Erik blinks, taken aback by the admission, but Charles only gives him a wry smile. _I have the means not to be vulnerable; I won’t apologize for protecting myself._

“You didn’t have to do that.”

 _Don’t lecture me,_ Charles snaps. Erik’s mind grows suddenly light, like the atmosphere lifting before a storm. _You have no idea what it’s like. I can’t hear alarms. If someone shouts a warning, I won’t know. Even little things are off- you can bond over complaining over how loud the birds are, but unless I borrow someone’s mind, I wouldn’t know if there were any!_

“Birds,” Erik repeats. “You made everyone think you weren’t deaf because you were upset you couldn’t whine about _birds_?”

 _I made you think I could hear, because I wanted to be accepted! I wanted to be included._ He relents, and the lightheaded feeling passes. _To be fair, I didn’t do that to all of you._

“The bailiffs.” Of course.

_And Angel. She was the first to figure it out. One of her friends is deaf, apparently, and she recognized some of my habits._

“It’s that obvious?”

 _She’s a smart girl._ Smoothing out the wrinkles in his sheet, Charles sighs. _And I never got the hang of acting like I could hear, even when I could._

Erik frowns. “You weren’t always deaf?”

Chuckling, Charles taps the side of his head. _Cochlear implants. They worked well for a time._

“But I don’t sense anything. Unless you’re hiding that, too?”

 _No, they took them out after they broke._ Charles glances away. _Turns out, getting hit in the head isn’t good for them._

“Cain?”

_Cain._

“Was he telling the truth, then?”

 _About me keeping silent? He was. Our house was not a kind one._ He says it in a way that could almost be matter of fact, but his gift trembles against Erik’s mind.

Erik can’t overlook what Charles did, but if he lets go of the hurt rushing in his ears, he can understand why Charles did what he did.

“What will you do now?” he asks, rather than attempt to talk through something he doesn’t know how he feels about yet.

_Return to medicine, I think._

Swallowing hard, Erik nods. “You should stay in touch.”

 _Armando and Angel already have my number,_ Charles says, frowning, _and I’m sure one of them forced it on Logan. I doubt anyone else is interested._

Not everyone handled the revelation of Charles’ mental fiddling gracefully. Erik doesn’t blame them, though he wants to. Charles has nevertheless become a taboo topic at the courthouse, at least around Erik.

“I meant us,” he corrects. “You should stay in touch with me.”

Charles’ brows twitch, but after a moment, he lifts his right hand, fingers curled into an o shape, then raises his left hand, palm up, which he follows by making a half-fist with his right, index and middle fingers extended with his thumb resting between them, and tapping the front of his right hand to the palm of his left.

 _Okay,_ he clarifies, smiling widely.

 

**_xx_ **

 

 

_Six months later_

 

It took three weeks, but Charles did email Erik. They met up, had an awkward not-date over drinks until Erik got impatient and scribbled a demand for clarification- were they going to try to get past what happened or not?- and Charles, after a long moment of watching Erik with an increasingly smug smile, wrote yes.

Now, five months later, Erik is the happiest he’s been in a long time. Seeing Charles is the brightest part of his day, and even when they argue, which is usually Erik’s fault for not remembering to take Charles’ hearing into account or Charles’ for not telling Erik right away, they always come back together.

_Erik._

Blinking off his reverie, Erik looks down at Charles and hums curiously.

 _Could you please focus on the present?_ Charles grouches.

Given Charles has been spread out in Erik’s bed, naked and hard, waiting for Erik to move, Erik can sympathize with the secondhand frustration twanging at his mind. He didn’t mean to drift off. He just got caught up in the sound Charles just made. That low, perfect groan when Erik pushed in made him burn…

Charles pinches one of Erik’s cheeks. _Review later- fuck me now._

“Whatever you want,” Erik purrs. It gets him a roll of Charles’ eyes, but that’s fine.

They take it slow. In part because Erik loves dragging it out, making Charles clutch at him and draw heavy breaths as he gets closer and closer without ever actually falling over the edge, but also because going slow makes Charles more likely to make noise. Erik has spent every moment they’ve been in bed together hoping and searching for ways to make Charles more verbal- Charles is a talker outside sex, and Erik is desperate to hear every little verbal gasp and moan Charles tries to hide. He may never find out what made Charles shy about being noisy, if it’s just a precaution or if someone said something to him, but if Erik can, he wants to make Charles as unselfconscious when he’s on his back as he is when they cuddle on the couch.

When he comes, Charles only lets out a surprised, “Oh!” but it’s more than Erik has ever gotten before.

He doesn’t last long after that, not with Charles smiling drowsily at him and petting his hair, muttered encouragements slurring together as he fights not to drift off. The warm haze of his mind eases Erik’s orgasm almost to the point of missing it.

Flopping over onto his side, Erik internally debates whether he has the energy to get up and get a wash cloth to clean them up, only for Charles to put his arm around Erik’s waist.

_Stay._

Well, that decides that.

Before Charles can cuddle up close, Erik puts a hand on his chest. Charles gives him a curious, albeit unfocused, look. Erik ignores the thrum of _want to sleep, hurry up now_ in his head and points instead at his chest. Then he crosses his arms over his chest as if he were hugging himself and points at Charles.

A wave of affection washes over him, and Charles lifts a hand into the space between them, extending his pinky, index, and thumb, returning the sentiment.

 _Now sleep,_ he sighs. _You’re making me dinner later, and I want something better than soup._

“Whatever you want.” Erik pulls Charles close and wraps his arms around him. Charles curls against him agreeably, and Erik’s heart feels so full it hurts.

He is going to have to introduce Charles to his parents soon. They already know he's seeing someone, and they've been dropping hints about not being happy that their only son is keeping his partner from them. Last time he visited them, they even got Ruth on the line to help badger him about his "secret lover".

As he drifts off, arms full of the man he loves, Erik finds himself welcoming the idea of his family meeting Charles.

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings: ableism, especially ableist language, and references to past child abuse
> 
> This fic really wasn't supposed to have a plot, which is why the plot is terrible. I just craved Judge!Erik and Deaf!Charles, and the two came together. I'm sure lots of this doesn't follow correct court procedure, but I'm too lazy to do proper research.


End file.
